


Truce

by mistrali



Category: Good Omens
Genre: Gen, POC Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-18 14:56:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21278726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistrali/pseuds/mistrali
Summary: A and C shake on it.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 16
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens





	Truce

_ 1020, Cumbria, England _

A demon and an angel were perched on a mountain somewhere in Cumbria - in fact, on what would later be called Scafell Pike.

“Alright,” said Crowley. “Truce. No discorporation, no telling tales to our respective offices, and no interfering with each other’s targets. Shake on it?”

He stretched out a hand, palm open, gold rings glimmering against his dark skin. Aziraphale hesitated again, looking for hidden poison darts, then clasped it. For a split second, agony seared through his arm; then the heat faded.

They’d touched before, of course - pinned one another down, strangled each other, snapped limbs and spinal cords, gouged out eyes, sunk fangs into flesh, or slicked their fingers with one another’s blood in their desperate haste to deliver the final blow.

But never like this, clean skin to clean skin. Aziraphale’s heart raced; magic was coursing through them, not ethereal or occult, but altogether more human power: primeval and potent. It reminded him of Adam and Eve’s flight with his sword, of the Bedouin camps in Jordan, of the knots of merchants who swarmed about Paris every day. Social agreement, commerce, cooperation. 

How pleasant it would have been all those years ago, if he’d had Crowley for a friend. They could have looked at books together (though perhaps minor demons didn’t read books, thought Aziraphale uncertainly). They could have met every few centuries, even, for a game of draughts or a glass of beer.

He grimaced and tugged away his hand, startled at the train of his own thoughts. Crowley laughed delightedly, tongue flickering out to taste the air as though he could smell Aziraphale’s embarrassment. Aziraphale gave him a tentative smile of his own.

“Truce,” he said. And then, haltingly, looking at the sun rising in a glory of gold and orange over the hills: “And, perhaps, breakfast?”


End file.
